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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22955404">you are my truest feeling yet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/pseuds/sosobriquet'>sosobriquet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), F/M, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Post Armageddon't</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:08:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,984</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22955404</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/pseuds/sosobriquet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's February. The last month of winter. Valentine's month, when everyone is especially fixated on love (which, fortunately, Crowley can feel not a whit of) and lust (which, unfortunately, Crowley can feel rather a lot of already).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>MFU Palentine's Day Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarrowkings/gifts">dwarrowkings</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Waking creeps up on Crowley a little at a time, where he's curled into a corner of Aziraphale's sofa. He knows that it's Aziraphale's, in the back room of the bookshop, long before he's fully aware. The well-loved, cozy comfort of it is recognizable even in the limbo between dreams and reality. Those familiar, beloved bookshop scents fill his nose; old leather, old paper, old ink. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And on top of that, the scent of Aziraphale himself; sharp, almost stinging, like too-cold air, like the emptiness of the space between the stars, and the subtle layers of the new cologne his barber has recently convinced him to try.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The warmth of Aziraphale's breath washes over his neck, curls beneath his collar, and Crowley shivers the rest of the way to alertness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a remote in his left hand, and the right is trapped behind Aziraphale’s back. The angel in question leans against him, his soft cheek pressed to the sharp lines of Crowley’s shoulder. His right hand still holds a book, but his left curls possessively around Crowley’s inner thigh, far too close to the erection straining against impossibly tight jeans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has to escape. Preferably before Aziraphale moves his hand northwards and forces Crowley to come in his pants like some pathetic, hormonal teenager. Also preferably without waking him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sleeping together like this (like something you’d see in a Disney film) has been a recent development, and Crowley can’t imagine how it would go if Aziraphale were to wake up and catch him slinking away in the early hours of the morning. Particularly if his sometimes inconveniently observant angel happened to notice his raging hard-on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sleeping together like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> (like a rather different kind of film) isn’t ever likely to happen. Angels, as a general rule, don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And Aziraphale has never given the slightest indication he’s among the few that do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley isn’t disappointed, truly. It’s enough to have Aziraphale’s love, and for it to be so freely given. That was more than he’d ever dared hope for, really. The thought of losing it because he cannot control his base urges is </span>
  <em>
    <span>horrifying</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so he begins extricating himself very carefully from his angel’s side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>First, he slowly wiggles his arm out from behind Aziraphale, watching carefully for any sign of disturbance. The much-loved face remains still and untroubled, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth. Crowley loses track of his objective for a long moment, looking down into Aziraphale's face, tracing every laugh line, every crease worn by love and care, the sweet, slight bump of his nose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The enticing curve of lips that Crowley has longed to kiss for millennia. He's always wondered what it would taste like, to kiss Aziraphale. Would it taste of the apple, of temptation itself? Or like Aziraphale's favorite cocoa, spiked with sweet brandy? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley leans closer as if caught by <em>l'appel du vide</em>. Aziraphale's breath gusts, warm, against Crowley's lips and he jerks back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peeling Aziraphale's hand off his thigh with extreme care, Crowley slithers backward over the arm of the sofa, gently guiding Aziraphale's face and shoulder into a divot in the cushions that had better hold him up, if the cushions know what's good for them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Making his way to the bathroom, which Aziraphale had kindly added after learning how much Crowley enjoys a hot bath in the colder months, Crowley glances at one of Aziraphale's twee little wall calendars. The pretentiously blurred picture shows a group of carolers lined up at a farmhouse door, and Crowley snorts derisively, as Christmas has certainly passed. He remembers dodging mistletoe for weeks while he walked arm-in-arm with Aziraphale, and the children that had come to sing at Aziraphale's door in return for gifts of chocolate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Come to think of it, New Year's must have passed as well, as he has a vague recollection of getting plastered with Aziraphale at his preferred bar and stumbling home through crowds of young people who had no idea that the new year they were celebrating had very nearly never come to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snapping his fingers to update the calendar to the current month and year (and a theme more to a demon's tastes), Crowley pales at the sight of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The vintage car now featured on the wall is lovely indeed, but Crowley can barely spare a thought for it as he stares in dawning horror at the rest of the image, which is two lovely young women leaning across the gleaming hood to kiss, surrounded by little cartoon hearts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>February</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The end of winter. Valentine's month, when everyone is especially fixated on love (which, fortunately, Crowley can feel not a whit of) and lust (which, unfortunately, Crowley can feel rather a lot of already, if the erection straining against his too-tight trousers is any indication).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He locks himself in the bathroom with a short prayer that Aziraphale remain asleep for the time being, and sets about trying to have a good wank or three without thinking too much of the angel just in the other room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-----</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On the first day of February, Aziraphale wakes to find Crowley sitting behind the shop til, staring into space. Between the hand over his mouth and the sudden reappearance of his glasses (in private, at least), almost the entirety of his face has been hidden from view.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, leaning into Crowley’s line of sight and startling him so that he nearly falls backward out of the chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Course I’m alright, angel. Just thinking about where we might go for a spot of lunch,” Crowley assures him, offering his hand and that barely-there curl of a smile that Aziraphale loves beyond all reason. Aziraphale accepts the unspoken invitation with a glowing smile of his own.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On the second day, Crowley tells Aziraphale he has a quick errand to run, but there’s really no need for Aziraphale to abandon his reading when Crowley will be back in an hour or two … unless he wants?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> want. They’ve spent years, even decades, apart. Lived through most of the history of the world essentially alone. Aziraphale can survive a few hours separated from his demon, living together hasn’t changed their lives </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> much, surely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mind how you go.” He sends Crowley on his way with a very small blessing, and an impossibly fond smile which Crowley returns in kind as he reaches the bookshop door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yet once Crowley is gone, Aziraphale finds himself keenly aware of the passage of time for the first time in his incredibly long life. His grandfather clock steadily ticks away the minutes that have suddenly begun to feel more like hours. After three hours of this torture, Aziraphale slams his book shut (only a few pages further than he’d been when Crowley left), retrieves his coat from the rack by the door, and sets out to follow his sense of Crowley across London.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finds the wayward demon in his flat, berating his plants with even more venom than usual. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello, dearest,” he says quietly, so as not to startle, but Crowley leaps, as if someone has put hot coals beneath his feet, and whirls to face Aziraphale, brandishing his empty watering can.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Angel, what are you- oh, I must have let the time get away from me, I was just-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale simply reaches for his empty hand, catching it in his own and silencing Crowley’s apologies and excuses with a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry, darling,” he says with his fondest smile, “but I got to thinking, after you left, about that new fusion place you’d mentioned… And then I found myself becoming quite hungry. I only came to ask if you would like to have dinner there together?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The food turns out to be a little less enjoyable than Crowley’s company, which is not at all a criticism of the meal.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And on the third day, Crowley hesitates when Aziraphale invites him to his bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's far from the first time they'll have shared a bed since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, though it is still not a frequent occurrence. Crowley typically retires to bed quite alone, with only the memory of the most chaste of goodnight kisses, or cheek pats, for company. Sometimes they fall asleep together on the sofa while Crowley watches Golden Girls and Aziraphale pretends to be reading instead. Sometimes, Aziraphale will offer up a hand and confess to a feeling of tiredness, or even just a desire for sleep, and ask if Crowley would like to join him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley has never said no, has never so much as hesitated, before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A hole opens up in Aziraphale's chest at this new reluctance, and he snatches his hand back as if burned. Crowley catches it in his before Aziraphale can fully retreat, stepping in close and offering a brief hug, the most physical expression of their affection they've dared to try.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Heart beating in double time, swelling with such love it really might burst, Aziraphale leans into the embrace for the few seconds he can steal before Crowley grows tense and pulls away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course I'll come to bed, angel," he says softly. "You know I never turn down a good sleep." Crowley smiles, but something about it is tight around the edges. Aziraphale returns it, hoping that he's doing a better job of faking his sincerity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And I never say no to you," Crowley adds, a little of his light teasing returning. It rankles, needling some wound Aziraphale would rather not look at too closely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley leads him up the stairs to the beyond-antique four-poster bed with fingers laced together, and Aziraphale wonders if he's chosen to lead the way just to hide the tension in his face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On the fourth of February, Crowley does not wake up. He is simply already awake, having spent the entire night pretending very hard that he was sleeping soundly, and that he didn't desperately want to rut against the mattress or into his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lying on his stomach, cock trapped between the soft dip of the mattress and the hard curve of his belly, Crowley wants to scream into the pillow, or perhaps smother himself in it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To do either would attract more of Aziraphale's attention than Crowley can bear at present, and so he suffers his dripping cock in silence while Aziraphale obliviously strokes his empty hand up and down Crowley's spine. Usually, Crowley finds this enjoyable, and even seeks it out … when he is safely sexless. Without an effort, arousal exists, formless and without urgency. Like this, it is a torture well beyond the feeble imaginings of Hell.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After what seems like an eternity (but in reality, the sunlight warming Crowley's back has hardly shifted) Aziraphale leaves the bed, at last, to replenish his tea. Crowley waits until he hears the tell-tale rattlings of his angel puttering around the kitchen before bolting from the bed and into the bath that has quite suddenly become a shower, much to its surprise. Aziraphale has never come in while he's been in the bath before, but still he craves the extra barrier of a foggy frosted glass door between his sins and Aziraphale's sight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He comes three times in quick succession, imagination in overdrive. One; holding Aziraphale close, legs slipping between legs, straining erections rubbing against hips, slick cunts grinding against thighs. Two; Aziraphale's hands trailing down his back and further still, gripping his arse and spreading him wide for a tongue or a finger to thrust inside. Three; taking Aziraphale's cock in his mouth, his arse, his cunt. Aziraphale says </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and Crowley sobs through his orgasm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His lip is bleeding and his hands are rough and waterlogged, but he wrings out a fourth orgasm in a mindless haze just to be safe. Then he miracles away every trace of an effort and scrubs the clinging fresh-miracle feeling from his skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hopes he has done enough to be able to face Aziraphale and avoid any more worried, hurt looks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The fifth day of February finds Crowley in his flat again. He has not come for one of his (un)usual plant therapy sessions, though he does water them while he is there. He glances around furtively while he waters, to make sure Aziraphale isn’t lurking, and mutters grudgingly. “Shouldn’t have been so rough the other day, ‘s goin’ through some stuff, y’know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finishes watering and sweeps out of the garden, smacking the empty watering can down on the first available surface. He didn’t come here to make apologies to some </span>
  <em>
    <span>plants</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he came here for his </span>
  <em>
    <span>wardrobe</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s time for a change, after all. And not </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>because he’d rather Aziraphale not notice some recent changes to his anatomy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale hasn’t seen the room that serves as his massive walk-in closet yet. He hasn’t asked what Crowley keeps behind this always-closed door in a flat full of perpetually open doorways. Sometimes he regrets the secrecy of it, but so much of his soul has been bared to Aziraphale , ever since the world really began, that he clings to the few secrets that he has left. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mainly that he hoards mementos in the form of clothes and pieces of art, but also that he’s wanted Aziraphale to hold him down and fuck him senseless for almost as long as he’s wanted Aziraphale to love him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley throws open the door and heads straight for a particular corner, the one where he keeps the clothes he wore while playing nanny to a perfectly ordinary little boy. At the time, those were some of the happiest days of his existence, even with the looming threat of Armageddon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flips through his old selection of sensible, severe women’s clothing. He will not wear these clothes again, not least because he would prefer to not think of Aziraphale’s disguise as Brother Francis ever again. Crowley likes to reinvent himself; too much to drag out old fashions when he could have new instead. He keeps his old clothes for the memories of them, and sometimes to serve as inspiration for a new look, like now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A snake can’t return to a shed skin, even if it wants to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If his hands linger on some of the fabric, if he presses some pieces to his cheek and breathes deeply, well, there’s no one here to see. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once he knows what it is he wants, he puts everything back in its own place, and leaves for the shops. Whether or not what Crowley has in mind is currently in fashion, he’s sure to find it. Perks of being a demon and all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On the morning of the sixth day, Aziraphale is waiting by the phone. Crowley had phoned the night before to say he wouldn't be back before morning, and not to wait up, or worry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale had promised not to, and then spent the rest of his evening, and the night, and the early hours of the morning doing just that. He didn't feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>worried</span>
  </em>
  <span>, exactly, but he felt ill at ease without Crowley there, and to know that for some reason he hadn't wanted to come home for the night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The phone rings, and Aziraphale snatches it from its stand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Good morning, angel. What do you say to crepes for breakfast?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a long moment Aziraphale is silent. His chest feels too full, his skin too tight. He cannot speak, or even breathe, for the sudden spike of the love he feels for Crowley. All that comes out when he tries is a quiet, strangled sound.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you alright, angel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All his held breath leaves him, like air being released from a balloon. “I missed you,” he says, his voice overflowing with affection and relief. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A soft inhale reaches Azirphale’s ear. “I- I missed you too, angel.” Crowley sounds awkward, but sincere, as he often does when it comes to feelings. He clears his throat stiffly. “Pick you up in ten?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, darling, I think I’ll meet you there, if you don’t mind,” Aziraphale says gently, hoping that a short walk will give him the time he needs to pull himself together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley makes an unhappy little noise, and Aziraphale can perfectly picture the moue of disappointment that goes with it. But he says, “That’s alright, angel, I’ll see you there,” like he means it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-----</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It only takes a moment to pick Crowley out of the crowd. Everywhere he looks there are gaudy hearts on garish display, and at every table there sits a couple; either simpering or sincere in their affection. That would be the approaching ‘holiday’ he thinks, a touch derisively, just as he spots Crowley. His demon is an instantly familiar sight, despite the change in clothes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley is sitting in a corner booth, decked out in a smart but unusually modest dark suit. The look of it reminds Aziraphale very much of Crowley’s days as Nanny Ashtoreth, despite some obvious changes. To start, there’s no hat in sight, nor strange, bird-headed umbrella.The bow that had once been a dark red is dark purple instead, and Crowley is wearing wide-legged trousers rather than a skirt. The boots appear to be the usual pair, though perhaps the heel is a bit taller than it had been.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale starts, caught staring, when one of the staff appears to seat him. “Oh, thank you, but I don’t need a table,” he says, with a smile that takes over his entire face, “you see, I’m afraid my friend has already arrived and secured one.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gestures discreetly at Crowley, who happens to look up and flash a quick smile at them just as the server turns that direction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No problem at all, sir,” says the server; in a slightly bored, but not unkind, tone. Aziraphale blesses them with a good day, and above average tips, just because he feels like it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Making his way across the crowded cafe, Aziraphale’s heart swells with every step. He can feel the weight of Crowley’s subtle, soft smile, can picture it without looking directly at Crowley. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their eyes meet as Aziraphale reaches the corner booth, and there indeed is that faint curl of lips Crowley reserves just for him. Smiling shyly, Aziraphale lets his gaze follow the movement of Crowley’s arm, gesturing for him to sit on the other leg of the L-shaped bench.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale slides into the seat, catching Crowley’s retreating hand to give it a quick squeeze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Should I ask how you would like to be called?” Aziraphale asks gently, leaning close so as not to be overheard. Crowley looks much the same, aside from the clothes. The adam’s apple looks less pronounced above the bow than Ashtoreth’s had, and perhaps the jawline is not quite so severe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My name will do just as nicely as usual,” Crowley says with an impish flash of teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolds, responding to the demon’s teasing with a put-upon glare.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley chuckles, and pats Aziraphale’s knee under the table. For all that it’s clearly meant to be a soothing gesture, it makes all Aziraphale’s hair stand on end. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Truth be told, I haven’t quite decided,” Crowley says with an introspective look that slowly turns wicked. “Did you tell the server you were here to meet your boyfriend? Or perhaps your wife?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale sputters. “You know I would never be so presumptuous!” he protests. Expanding his use of endearments past ‘dear boy’ as their relationship progressed had been harrowing enough, thank you very much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s face softens, and that subtle smile returns. “You can call me anything you like, angel, but “miss” ought to do just fine, for now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know you’re lovely to me, however you look,” Aziraphale says quietly, still sitting very close, but no longer meeting Crowley’s eyes. He clears his throat abruptly, before silence can take hold.  “You’ll let me know if that changes, won’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Course I will,” Crowley answers, a flush creeping across her cheekbones, likely embarrassed by Aziraphale’s attention. “Thank you for noticing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Driven by an overwhelming rush of affection, Aziraphale leans closer still and presses a kiss to Crowley’s pinkening cheek. “Of course, darling, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>notice you</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Crowley has requested that Aziraphale use feminine forms of address when referring to Crowley. However, despite presenting feminine at the moment, Crowley is feeling more genderqueer/detached from gender and is balancing the feminine presentation by privately thinking of himself as he/him. To reflect this I will be referring to Crowley as she/her when writing Aziraphale’s parts, and as he/him when writing Crowley’s parts.</p>
<p>Many thanks to <a>Lurlur</a> for brit-picking and beta-reading, and for helping me decide on a museum.</p>
<p>And to <a>cassieoh</a> and <a>D20Owlbear</a> for beta-reading and talking me through a few points.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On February the seventh, Crowley is having an existential crisis, and likely over misting his plants as a coping mechanism. </p>
<p>
  <em> I always notice you. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> You know you’re lovely to me, however you look. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <b>WIFE.</b>
</p>
<p>What on earth had possessed him to ask Aziraphale such a thing?! At least he had responded to it as the joke it mostly was, and then very kindly had not mentioned it again.</p>
<p>Just the day before, they’d enjoyed their breakfast crepes in relative ease, and then had gone on a perfectly uneventful walk around St. James’ Park. Crowley’s skin had still crawled with all the lust permeating the air, but without any sort of effort it had been more an annoyance than a pressing need. </p>
<p>After a late “lunch” of hot cocoa and sweet pastries, purchased from a cart that was just closing up for the evening, Crowley asked Aziraphale if he’d mind spending the evening at Crowley’s flat. “I know your books aren’t there, angel, but last night I was thinking … much as I love your bookshop, I miss my plants. I miss my bed. I miss the empty space.”</p>
<p>“Of course I don’t mind, my dear,” Aziraphale said graciously, pressing even closer against Crowley’s side, threatening to tangle their feet together. “I can always summon any book I might desire, after all.” </p>
<p>They’d made one last circuit of the duck pond in companionable silence before Aziraphale had spoken again. “Actually, now you mention it, I’d been thinking that perhaps instead of splitting our time between my bookshop and your flat, we ought to start thinking about finding a home of our own.”</p>
<p>When Crowley had said <em> we’re on our own side </em> , he’d never expected it to lead to <em> a home of our own </em>. </p>
<p>Crowley startles to feel Aziraphale’s hand on his arm. This time, thankfully, he does not spin around waving the mister like some sort of pathetic bludgeoning instrument.</p>
<p>“Dearest,” says Aziraphale, like he doesn’t see the tension Crowley is sure must be written across his face, screamed by the awkward stillness of his posture, “since you’ve been spending so much time with your plants, I wondered if maybe a change of scenery would be just the thing? We’ve not been to the Kew Gardens lately-”</p>
<p>
  <em> Not since Aziraphale had reached for his hand in waterlily house, days before it closed for the winter, and said, “It’s alright if you don’t feel the same, but I wanted you to know that there’s nothing and no one I would rather spend eternity with, not in all the universe.” </em>
</p>
<p>Crowley’s hand trembles, so slight that maybe Aziraphale will not notice, but still enough for a drop of water to fall onto his finger. He flinches and drops the bottle, reaching for Aziraphale with both hands. </p>
<p>The bottle lands without a sound in the kitchen sink, and Aziraphale catches Crowley safely in his arms.</p>
<p>“Oh darling,” Aziraphale soothes, stroking Crowley’s back as he tucks his face into the curve of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, we don’t have to go to the Gardens, it was only a thought.”</p>
<p>How like Aziraphale not to ask, too afraid to pry, and apologize instead.</p>
<p>“We could go to a museum, if you like, or nowhere at all,” he continues, pressing his cheek to Crowley’s. “Anything you like, my love,” he murmurs gently, lips brushing Crowley’s ear.</p>
<p>Crowley trembles. “You were gone,” he breathes, sinking against Aziraphale like a marionette with its strings cut, "and there was so much I'd never told you."</p>
<p>"Oh," Aziraphale sighs, as if he understands now. He doesn't. He thinks there are no more secrets between them now, but there are. “I’m here now,” he promises, “forever and always.”</p>
<p>The truth tries to bubble up from deep in Crowley’s chest, burning like the boiling sulphur that once charred his wings to the bone and filled his lungs until they could have burst. He clings to Aziraphale and nods against his shoulder, afraid that if he opens his mouth the last of his secrets will come crawling out. </p>
<p><em> I'd give anything for you to fuck me, even just once </em>, he doesn't say. He can't ask that of Aziraphale, and he can't lie to him either. Just once would never be enough, and there are things he would not give. Why else would he let the secret of his desire fester in his chest until it was an open, rotting wound? </p>
<p>"Would you rather stay in today?" Aziraphale asks after a brief silence, knowing by now that Crowley will not be likely to speak to answer him just yet.</p>
<p>Crowley nods, heaving a sigh of relief when Aziraphale says, very gently, "That's alright then."</p>
<p>“I could order dinner for us, if you like, and we could watch Golden Girls all day and night?” Aziraphale offers, still holding Crowley close, still holding him up. </p>
<p>Crowley makes a noise that would be incomprehensible to anyone else, but Aziraphale understands and switches tactics.</p>
<p>“Sorry, dear. Would you like if I ordered dinner for us later?”</p>
<p>‘Dinner for us’ will mostly be dinner for Aziraphale, truth be told, but Crowley likes to watch his angel enjoy things, and by now Aziraphale knows a few things Crowley can be coaxed into eating.</p>
<p>“Alright then. Will you tell me when you’re ready for that?” Aziraphale asks. Another nod. Crowley wants to crawl inside Aziraphale’s skin and carve out a space for himself there.</p>
<p>“Golden Girls?” Aziraphale offers, but Crowley shakes his head.</p>
<p>This seems to stymie him for a moment, but he bounces back with a new suggestion. “Would you like to sit on the couch with me?”</p>
<p>Crowley hesitates. He’s not sure what he <em> does </em>want, not yet. But he doesn’t think that’s it.</p>
<p>“I could read to you?”</p>
<p>More hesitation, followed by a noncommittal shrug. At least he is feeling calm again; no more panic seizing his lungs, no more painful truths trying to claw their way out of his mouth.</p>
<p>Feeling more than a little silly to have made Aziraphale play this guessing game, Crowley clears his throat. “Could you read to me in bed?” he asks in a small voice, painfully aware of the gears turning in Aziraphale’s head.</p>
<p>Last time they’d shared a bed, Crowley had disappeared for nearly 24 hours.</p>
<p>Aziraphale presses a kiss to the side of Crowley’s face, right over the snake sigil. “As you like,” he says, so soft and fond that Crowley’s heart aches.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>On the eighth day of February, Aziraphale wakes with his nose buried in Crowley’s hair and his arms wrapped around her, holding her against his chest. Crowley’s breathing is even, her sleep deep and untroubled.</p>
<p>“May you dream of whatever you like best, my love,” Aziraphale murmurs into her hair, pressing closer still.</p>
<p><em> Lord </em>, how he loves her, him, anything and everything Crowley has ever chosen to be. More than anything else in the whole of creation, he can admit to himself now, without the looming threat of God Herself overhearing, or caring if she did.</p>
<p>Despite a growing feeling of restlessness, Aziraphale stays in bed, tucked up close against Crowley, and waits for her to stir. He has plans for the day, if she’s amenable.</p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>With a light heart and Crowley's hand tucked into the crook of his arm, Aziraphale leads the way into the magnificent entrance hall of the V&amp;A. It's reminiscent of an age he had very much enjoyed and the bright, airy space seems to make Crowley stand a little taller. He allows himself a moment to admire the way the light plays across the red of his beloved's hair, and savour the quiet clicking of her low heels on the floor.</p>
<p>There are tickets waiting behind the reception desk with Aziraphale’s name on them, although this is not a practice in use by this museum.</p>
<p>"Are there any galleries you would like to visit first, my dear?" Aziraphale asks, not wanting to rush Crowley on a day they are meant to be enjoying.</p>
<p>"Nah, angel," Crowley says agreeably. "Start on the left and make our way ‘round?" she suggests, squeezing Aziraphale's arm and showing off her perfectly manicured nails, painted black and gold. Aziraphale's own handiwork, and he's rightfully proud of it considering it was done in a bed and not at a table.</p>
<p>"Excellent, my dear. You do have the best ideas," Aziraphale agrees, and leads Crowley off to the left of the entrance hall. </p>
<p>They've been here many times. They’ve seen the galleries rearranged, and the special exhibits change with the years and the seasons. They breeze through the more familiar galleries, and linger in the limited exhibits. The one featuring shoes is a particular hit. Crowley has always had a certain fondness for them, and the title is exactly the sort of thing that appeals to her sense of humor. <em> Pleasure and Pain </em>indeed.</p>
<p>Crowley steers them away from the garden opposite the entrance hall with a light touch, and Aziraphale lets himself be led astray without protest.</p>
<p>At another subtle tug from Crowley, they skip the hall bordering the garden as well, and head straight for the bookshop. </p>
<p>“Your sort of place, isn’t it, angel?” Crowley asks, teasing, despite knowing perfectly well that Aziraphale has never in his life purchased anything from a museum shop. Except, on very rare occasions, food.</p>
<p>Aziraphale allows Crowley to draw him inside the book shop, offering only a few token protests. The indignity of existing inside a museum shop is worth watching Crowley flit around like an overexcited child, an attitude at odds with both her recent behavior and her severe-looking clothing.  </p>
<p>They leave the shop with two magnets; one an open book, the other a pair of black heels with distinctive red soles. <em> Miraculously, </em>Crowley was able to find them printed with Aziraphale’s name and Crowley’s, respectively. Then, keepsakes in hand, Crowley finally allows them to leave the bookshop and turn the corner leading to another special exhibit.</p>
<p>A massive banner dominates their field of view. On it is a gate, or perhaps a gilded cage, ornate and larger than life. The name of the exhibit twines amongst the bright metalwork; <em> Beyond the Gates of Eden: A History of the Forbidden. </em> They both stop in their tracks at the sight and press closer together, the light and laughing mood they’d fallen into evaporating instantly.</p>
<p>“Alright, dearest?” Aziraphale asks when he can find both his breath and his tongue again.</p>
<p>Crowley swallows, and licks her lips, before she answers. “‘Course I am, angel. Shall we?” </p>
<p>The exhibit starts with more modern works, some too vulgar for Aziraphale’s tastes. He’s no innocent when it comes to love and lust, but it has always seemed to him that love should not be put on such crude display. There are some, however, that pierce his heart with their tenderness. It does not escape his notice which pieces make his companion squirm with discomfort, and which cause a blush to stain her fine cheekbones. </p>
<p>At last, they come to some paintings old enough for Aziraphale to recognize. There are a handful of Toulouse-Lautrec’s paintings on display, among them two of Aziraphale’s favorites. <em> Devotion </em>; featuring two women lying together on a plush and golden bed. The pose itself could be considered suggestive, but their ease with one another is evident, and the very thing that has always drawn Aziraphale to it.</p>
<p>“I remember when he was painting these,” he tells Crowley, soft and secret like a confession. “He liked to visit the whorehouses, you know, and pay the girls to let him paint them,” he explains, moving to study another painting. This one also shows two women, this time kissing and cocooned in bedding that looks soft as clouds, painted in pale blues and greens shot through with streaks of gold; <em> The Kiss. </em></p>
<p>“Sounds like an odd man,” Crowley responds, in that peculiar tone she uses when someone’s strange kindness has put her off-balance. She holds onto Aziraphale a little tighter, leaning closer to press her cheek to Aziraphale’s curls.</p>
<p>“He was, a little,” Aziraphale agrees, “but so compassionate.” Crowley’s fingers sink a little deeper into his arm, just for a second, for less time than it takes for Aziraphale to sigh wistfully. It’s greedy of him, he knows, to have all this and still want more. It should be enough to fall asleep tucked into one another on the sofa, to wake up in the same bed, to live together in delirious happiness and be drunk on unfathomable depths of care and affection for the rest of their days.</p>
<p>And yet, he wants what he sees in this painting; love and devotion made physical, the tenderness of touch. Aziraphale wants to wake Crowley with kisses every morning, to show her each and every possible expression of love, to find which ones she likes best so that he may show her, again and again and again, all the ways that he loves her.  </p>
<p>He cannot do any of those things, so he slides an arm around her waist and hugs her close, turning to murmur into her ear, "Do you know how much I love you, my dearest, my darling one?"</p>
<p>Crowley turns as red as her hair and says nothing. But that's alright, he hadn't been looking for an answer when he asked.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>February ninth, Crowley sprawls comfortably on the floor of the garden, soaking up the sunlight streaming through the windows. The tile will not dare give him any aching bones, it knows better. Soft footsteps disturb the quiet, and Crowley is pleased to hear them.</p>
<p>“Yesss, angel?” he asks, a sleepy sibilance to his words as he catches Aziraphale’s hand in his.</p>
<p>“I came to ask if you’d like to go out for a meal, or if you’d rather I ordered in,” Aziraphale says, letting the drag of Crowley’s overstretched arm pull him down. </p>
<p>“Mmm, let’s go to Browns?” Crowley suggests, humming contentedly. “For a late lunch?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale doesn’t get a chance to answer before Crowley starts tugging insistently at his hand. “C’mon, angel, get down here,” he huffs.</p>
<p>“The floor is hardly the place for a cuddle, if that’s what you’re wanting, my dear,” Aziraphale says, completely and frustratingly unmoved by Crowley’s pleading.</p>
<p>“‘S’comfy enough, more than you think. I told it to be,” Crowley protests, finally opening his eyes to maximize the effect of his pout. “It’s warm and sunny, Aziraphale, don’t make me get up yet.”</p>
<p>“Oh, alright,” Aziraphale sighs, slowly folding his legs to sit on the floor at Crowley’s head. “Come here,” he instructs, already tucking his hands under Crowley’s shoulders and hauling him into a sitting position.</p>
<p>Crowley allows this without protest, heart beating double time and face on fire. He remembers, with some effort, to continue breathing evenly.</p>
<p>“There,” Aziraphale says with an air of satisfaction, “now I can at least do your hair while we sit on the floor.”</p>
<p>Crowley’s spine considers turning to jelly. But if it did, he’d find himself sprawled across Aziraphale’s lap, looking up at him. And then, well, Crowley would want to kiss him. And if Crowley did kiss him, then he’d want Aziraphale to fuck him. Crowley has asked for too much already.</p>
<p>So he remains sitting and lets Aziraphale do something altogether miraculous with only his bare and miracle-less hands. Maybe lunch will settle the butterflies threatening to burst from his belly or fly from his mouth.</p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>Seated at a quiet corner table, Aziraphale studies the menu, and Crowley studies Aziraphale. This is nothing unusual, of course, except that Aziraphale remarks on it, in his sidelong way.</p>
<p>“Nothing for you, then?” he asks, glancing at Crowley’s untouched menu.</p>
<p>“Oh, I think I might like something,” Crowley answers, and still does not touch the menu. </p>
<p>Aziraphale doesn’t take the bait, and Crowley sighs. “Would you order for me, angel?”</p>
<p>Crowley pretends it’s a game; but the truth is that he doesn’t like to be distracted from watching Aziraphale, and that the thought of Aziraphale turning such attention on Crowley is <em> too much </em>. He’d started to eat with Aziraphale, sometimes, after the No-pocalypse, too weak to deny the cajoling Aziraphale suddenly found himself capable of. </p>
<p>It’s easier to eat things Aziraphale has chosen for him. The pressure of feeling watched, of being seen to enjoy himself, overmatched by his desire to please Aziraphale. </p>
<p>Aziraphale nods to one of the waitstaff as they pass, and pats Crowley on the knee reassuringly.</p>
<p>“I’ll have the mushrooms on brioche to start, then the mussels and frites, please,” he says, in a tone Crowley recognizes as Aziraphale discreetly blessing someone’s day. </p>
<p>Crowley gives him a knowing look, which Aziraphale returns with a sly glance of his own.</p>
<p>“And the tomato and thyme soup,” Aziraphale says, looking far too pleased with himself.  “Followed by the fish goujons,” he settles his hand over Crowley’s, where it rests beside his untouched menu, “for my wife.”</p>
<p>The inside of Crowley’s head feels and sounds like a boiling, shrieking kettle.</p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>It’s torture, just listening to Aziraphale eating his <em> mushrooms on brioche </em> . Crowley can’t even enjoy it properly, can’t bear to <em> watch </em>. At least with the glasses on, Aziraphale can’t tell Crowley’s eyes are closed. </p>
<p>He startles when Aziraphale’s hand covers his again, and hopes he has not given himself away.</p>
<p>“Would you like a bite, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, low and imploring. A shiver travels up Crowley’s spine, but he does not permit it to travel any further than that.</p>
<p>“I saved the last for you,” Aziraphale adds. Crowley can smell it as he inhales slowly through parted lips, trying to keep his breathing calm. The light earthiness of the mushrooms, the richness of the melted butter, the crisp, toasted edges of the brioche fill his mouth and nose. </p>
<p>Crowley opens his eyes to see Aziraphale holding out a bite-sized morsel to taste, a look of such hope and entreaty on his face that Crowley cannot refuse.</p>
<p>His face carefully blank, Crowley leans a little closer and opens his mouth a little wider, inviting Aziraphale to place it on his tongue, if he likes. </p>
<p>Aziraphale hesitates, a familiar look of frustration crossing his face as he looks from Crowley’s covered eyes, to his mouth, and back again. Now that he’s grown used to seeing Crowley bare-faced at home, it troubles him to have that barrier between them again.</p>
<p>To say something would ruin the moment, so Crowley arches his eyebrows. There’s no need for words, not when there’s millennia of “well, go on, then” behind the gesture.</p>
<p>Aziraphale hesitates for just a second longer, worrying his lower lip, and then places his offering in Crowley’s waiting mouth. Crowley closes his lips around it, and the ends of Aziraphale’s thumb and forefinger too, with a low noise of satisfaction. The angel’s eyes are dark and round as saucers.</p>
<p>The starter tastes exactly as Crowley had imagined. </p>
<p>The tips of Aziraphale’s fingers taste <em> indescribable.  </em></p>
<p>With unsteady hands, Aziraphale slides Crowley’s bowl of soup closer. “Don’t let it go cold, darling,” he says too calmly, while fresh steam rises from the bowl.</p>
<p>It has always been a pleasure to grant Aziraphale’s requests, both explicit and unspoken. And every day it gets easier to eat when Aziraphale asks it of him. Crowley raises a spoonful to his mouth to taste; tart tomato, sweet-sharp thyme, something smooth and creamy.</p>
<p>“It’s delicious, angel. Would you like a taste?” Crowley offers Aziraphale a spoonful of fragrant tomato soup, one hand on the spoon, the other held beneath to catch any spills. </p>
<p>He’d thought about making the same offer with a similarly red fruit, back when the world was new, but he hadn’t dared. He’d feared what pain Knowing might inflict on an angel, and thought better of it. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate deserved a better reward for his kindness.</p>
<p>Aziraphale leans in to take the spoon into his mouth, letting his eyes drift closed and his chin come to rest in the curve of Crowley’s palm. He closes his lips around the spoon and pauses, savouring, before pulling back so slowly that Crowley’s hand on his chin feels too much like a caress.</p>
<p>Crowley <em> burns </em>, bright and hot as a dying star.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The evening of February tenth finds Crowley draped, silent and still, across Aziraphale’s sofa; and Aziraphale staring blankly at the calendar hung next to his desk, which is decidedly not the one he remembers hanging there. He has absolutely no interest in vintage automobiles, or in looking at scantily clad women. Exceptions being made for the Bentley and its owner, of course. His thoughts wander, imagining Crowley sprawled across the hood of the Bentley in something relatively modest (for Crowley), before he returns them to the realm of decency.</p>
<p>He simply cannot focus today; not on the rebinding he’d meant to do, not on the box of his favorite pastries sitting in the kitchen, nor on the ‘new’ collection of poetry Crowley had recently given him. <em> If something printed in the 1800s could ever be considered new, </em>he imagines Crowley sneering without any real meanness.</p>
<p>One of Crowley’s arms hangs over the back of the sofa, the soft knit of her borrowed jumper cool and gray against the warmth of the tartan blanket draped across the back. <em> Silly serpent, </em> he thinks, <em> if you’re so cold you must steal my jumpers, why not use the blanket? </em> It’s the tartan, he suspects.</p>
<p>Aziraphale watches as Crowley’s fingers twitch at some loud noise outside the shop, then rises from his desk to flip his sign from OPEN to CLOSED. He all but tiptoes as he approaches the back of the sofa, careful not to make enough noise to disturb Crowley, if she is truly asleep.</p>
<p>“Crowley?” he asks, very quietly, peering over the back of the sofa. Warm, golden eyes blink open immediately, and Crowley reaches for his arm.</p>
<p>“Hey, Aziraphale,” she says slowly, smiling warmly up at him, a second jumper covering her from her chin almost to her knees in pale blue.  “Everything alright?” She’s already starting to sit up, flipping the miraculously oversized jumped across the back of the couch.</p>
<p>“No, please, don’t get up,” Aziraphale protests gently, “I’m sorry if I woke you.” He touches her cheek, slides his fingers into her hair. “I know how you like to sleep.”</p>
<p>Crowley leans into his touch, still smiling, “It’s alright, I couldn’t sleep anyway.” She places a hand over his, holding it steady while she rubs her cheek against his palm. Aziraphale shivers, and Crowley slowly removes her hand, sitting up the rest of the way and tucking herself into a corner of the sofa.</p>
<p>She leans across and pats the far corner with a confident hand. “Sit here,” she says, and it sends a little thrill of pleasure up Aziraphale’s spine for Crowley to simply say what she wants. He takes less than a moment to still his racing heart, but she notices.</p>
<p>“Make yourself comfortable,” she prompts, mistaking his pause for hesitation. He does not correct her, but walks around the sofa to sit at the far end. </p>
<p>“Comfortable, you say?” Aziraphale teases, the brightness of his smile threatening to overflow, “Do you mean my sort of comfortable, or your contortionist sprawling?” He turns toward her, leaning back against the arm of the sofa.</p>
<p>“You’re the one that wanted to join me, angel,” Crowley retorts, obviously only pretending to be annoyed. “Take off your shoes and get your legs up here.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale complies, sitting up and toeing off his shoes, hoping Crowley doesn’t notice his flushed face, his lovestruck smile. He sits, looking down at his socked feet, for a long moment before deciding he ought to remove his waistcoat as well. No need to damage the already worn velvet by wiggling around on the couch. He threads each button back through its hole with care before shrugging out of it and draping it across the back of the sofa with gentle hands.</p>
<p>When he turns back toward Crowley, swinging one leg up onto the cushions, she’s staring at him, golden eyes wide and dilated. The look leaves him hot all over and wishing he’d shed even more of his layers, even while he wishes he’d left more on. He offers up a shy smile before looking away, and lifts his other leg slowly up onto the sofa.</p>
<p>That seems to jolt Crowley back into action. She grabs Aziraphale around the ankles and tugs him down the couch (with a little help) until his feet are nearly in her lap. A snap of her fingers and a pillow materializes, supporting his neck and cushioning his head.</p>
<p>Aziraphale holds out a hand, inviting Crowley to come closer. “Come here, darling,” he says softly, letting himself sink down into the cushions. Crowley sits, still as a statue, except for her eyes. Aziraphale waits for her to move. How often has Crowley refused him, after all? </p>
<p>Crowley moves at last, one corner of her mouth lifting into a small smile as she plants her hands on either side of Aziraphale’s hips, holding herself up as she settles between his legs. She <em> slithers </em> closer (there’s not a better word to describe it, truly), until her hips are cradled by the softness of his upper thighs. </p>
<p>“Perfect,” she whispers, hints of a hiss creeping into her voice, as she drapes the rest of her body across Aziraphale’s torso, folds her arms across his chest and rests her chin on them. She watches Aziraphale with hooded eyes, her face soft and inviting. </p>
<p>Aziraphale reaches out to stroke her cheek, sink his fingers into her hair, but she catches his hand first and holds it so that she can press a kiss into the center of his palm. </p>
<p>Crowley lets her mouth linger there a moment, breath warm against Aziraphale’s skin, then she lifts his hand back to her hair and turns her head into his touch in a clear request. Aziraphale sinks his fingers into her rust-red waves and she lets go of his hand, sighing blissfully.</p>
<p>“Yessss, pleasse,” she nearly purrs, tucking one hand beneath Aziraphale’s back, and the other arm between his body and the back of the sofa. She pillows her head on his chest, giving a full-body wriggle. “Don’t stop?”</p>
<p>“Of course not,” Aziraphale promises, using his free hand to tug the tartan blanket down over them both, and rearranging it to carefully frame her face without obscuring any of her features. Crowley looks so lovely, wrapped up in his colors. </p>
<p><em> God, </em> he prays, <em> did you know that I would love her so? </em>His heart aches, overflowing with love.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The weather turns on the eleventh of February. The park is all but empty in the morning fog, except for the two of them … and the wildlife, of course. A few humans hurry past, umbrellas held low and collars tugged high against the chill wind and light rain. Aziraphale holds a comically large (and hideously tartan) umbrella over them both, just for appearances, as Crowley has already assured that nothing will dare to dampen their clothes. The cold breeze nips at his cheeks and nose, his fingers and toes, but it does not sink deep enough to gnaw his bones. He suspects Aziraphale has quietly added a miracle against the cold to his rain-deflecting one. </p>
<p>“Fancy a walk?” Crowley had asked, something like an hour ago, and Aziraphale had answered, “Of course, my dear, if you’ll just let me fetch my umbrella.”</p>
<p>They wander to a stop at one of their preferred duck-feeding spots, despite having made no plans past “a walk” and “with the umbrella.” Crowley produces a little pail of peas (Adam’s doing, the switch from bread to peas) and holds it out for Aziraphale to toss to the fast-approaching waterfowl. </p>
<p>“There’s more than there were last time,” Crowley observes. Aziraphale reaches for a handful of peas and tosses them before the onslaught of feathery friends.  “Look at all the little ones. Bit early in the year for that, innit?” </p>
<p>Aziraphale shrugs, tossing another handful. The little ones make alarmed peeping noises at the sudden rain of small (and edible) projectiles. “Love is in the air, as they say,” he says, with the sort of nonchalance Crowley knows to be completely false.</p>
<p>Crowley hums. “I was thinking–” he pauses, shifts his grip on the pail, shuffles his feet.. Aziraphale turns to look at him, eyebrows raised, then goes back to tossing food to the ducks without a word. Waiting Crowley out.</p>
<p>Walking a nervous, lopsided circle around Aziraphale, Crowley doesn’t even notice Aziraphale plucking the pail of peas from his hands as he completes his first circuit. </p>
<p>“Well, you mentioned–” Crowley clears his throat, halting at Aziraphale’s right hand, halfway through a second wobbling circle. “You mentioned a place of our own, yeah? I think we should do that.” Aziraphale places a hand on his arm, but it’s too late to stop him now, his tongue has gotten a head start and is running away from him. “Get a place. Together. Move into it. Maybe in the country? Tadfield was alright. Less crowded. More quiet.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I did mention,” Aziraphale says, slow and thoughtful, tossing peas to the gaggle of ducks and geese and the mis-matched pair of swans. Crowley grows tense with even those few seconds of waiting, the nails blunted by many layers of polish digging deep into his palms.  “I’d very much like to, I think, if you wanted to as well?”</p>
<p>Crowley makes an incoherent noise, not even sure what exactly he is trying to say.</p>
<p>“Your feelings on the matter <em> are </em> rather important, darling,” Aziraphale chides gently. “If you want to, just say the word, but please don’t say you do just for my sake.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale stops feeding the ducks to reach for Crowley’s hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. Crowley clings to it like a lifeline. </p>
<p>The assorted waterfowl chatter impatiently, but Aziraphale does not appear to notice. “You seem more distressed by the current arrangement than I am, dearest. I am happy to continue as things are, for now, if you like?”</p>
<p>“Oh, angel,” Crowley sighs, relieved for no real reason that he can name. He leans against Aziraphale, still holding tight to his hand. “I want to, really. But are you sure?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Aziraphale begins, “I am sure I would like to have a home of <em> our </em> own, and nothing would please me more than to share that with you.” He sighs, squares his shoulders. Crowley steels himself for the blow that thousands of years of fear have taught him to anticipate.</p>
<p>“Crowley, I– I don’t think I’m quite ready to leave London just yet,” Aziraphale says with obvious regret. It is less than Crowley had expected, but all his hopes are dashed, nonetheless.</p>
<p>He hadn’t particularly wanted to leave London, of course, but ever since Aziraphale had mentioned it, he’d been thinking, turning it over in his mind. If they lived in the country, where there were fewer humans and more quiet, maybe he could pass the rest of eternity without thinking filthy thoughts about Aziraphale and wanting desperately to act on them.</p>
<p>Aziraphale is studying Crowley’s face without turning to face him, Crowley can tell. He knows his angel is cursing the presence of his glasses, and he feels almost bad for having chosen to do this here rather than at home, bare-faced and bared-soul. But, he’d never have had the courage, otherwise.</p>
<p>“We don’t have to leave London, angel,” Crowley says softly, feeling out of breath, “my mouth ran away with me, s’all. We can stay, forever, if you like.”</p>
<p>Something must have given him away. Aziraphale is miracling away the pail and the peas, stepping in front of Crowley and reaching for his other hand. “Let’s go and talk somewhere quieter?” he suggests gently, holding both Crowley’s cool, long-fingered hands in his warmer ones. “And less cold, too,” he adds, with such a smile that Crowley can feel the warmth of it even through the chill air.</p>
<p>“Alright,” Crowley agrees, “let’s get coffee?”</p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>“Is there something wrong with London?” Aziraphale inquires carefully, after having waited for their coffees in silence. They hold their paper cup in both hands, warming their chilled hands and watching each other nervously in quick glances.</p>
<p>Crowley stalls for a moment and sips his coffee. “Nothing wrong with London,” he says slowly, between sips, “just been here a while, is all. You know how I like change.” Over the top of his cup, he offers Aziraphale a sly smile, “Thought you might like the idea of opening a bookshop someplace no one even wants to buy books.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale laughs, so bright and full of love that for a moment it hurts Crowley’s eyes. He does not look away, though the light of him makes tears start to burn in his eyes.</p>
<p>“That’s not a bad idea at all, Crowley,” Aziraphale says once he’s able. “We have two places now, perhaps we could still have two… one in London, and one somewhere quiet? How does that sound?”</p>
<p>Crowley’s answering smile spreads across his face, his shoulders settle from their tense arch, his breath comes easier. “Sounds like Heaven on earth, angel,” he says, and means it.</p>
<p>Aziraphale sets his coffee aside and leans across the tiny table separating them, his hands cupping Crowley’s cheeks, soft and warm. And it’s alright, because Aziraphale has held his face like this before. Sometimes to scold Crowley, sometimes to heap praise and love upon him.</p>
<p>This time, though, Aziraphale kisses him. Or tries. </p>
<p>Crowley wrenches his face away at the last second, and Aziraphale’s kiss lands on his cheekbone. Safe, and oh so hurtful. </p>
<p>I- I’m s-sssorry, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers, “I can’t.”</p>
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